


Imagine-Medical

by ElizabethJaneway1158



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:43:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15760287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizabethJaneway1158/pseuds/ElizabethJaneway1158
Summary: Prompt from warp6: Imagine you are the one that has to tell Chakotay that Kathryn has been seriously injured on an away mission and may not survive.





	Imagine-Medical

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angrywarrior69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/angrywarrior69/gifts), [Helen8462](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helen8462/gifts), [m_class](https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_class/gifts).



> For angrywarrior69, Helen8462, m_class.

The acrid smell of burnt flesh and death lingers in the air. It strikes you suddenly when you enter the surgical bay. You’re used to these kinds of things; striving to look strictly at the facts, to distance yourself from each and every patient until they are removed from your care. You stand rooted to the spot when you finally catch a glimpse of who is in that biobed. One of your favorite repeat offenders: Admiral Kathryn Janeway.  
Kahless, haven’t they forced her behind a desk yet? Begrudgingly, you chastise her for being so reckless, frivolous with her own life to help others. The needs of the many—but, damn it. The needs of the one man that you know is attempting to break down the door to the intensive care unit are the needs you must now bear.  
Your nurse looks to you, the wild look in his eye speaks volumes of the information to come. Bolstering your resolve, you turn your steely gaze to the chart.  
“I was paged. Report.”  
“Janeway, K., 68 years of age; beamed directly to emergency ward. Code black. Resuscitated twice, once on scene and again in the unit. Multiple crush injuries, cranial swelling, severe trauma and gapping between the first and second cervical vertebra, free fluid in the abdomen, decreased breath sounds, fractures to the left femur, severe dislocation right shoulder, muscle and tissue damage nearing early necrosis. Forty percent of the body is compromised due to excessive third-degree burns. Prepping for emergency surgery on your order, ma’am.”  
Her pristine white hair is dark, matted, caked with blood; it’s a shocking contrast to the pallid skin of her swelling face. Years of training taking over, your body springs to action. You lower the canopy over her battered body and begin to play God. By all rights, this woman should have been dead five visits ago; the vivid memory of those deep sparkling dark eyes imploring you to return her fuels you to continue.  
Shit! She’s slipping—  
“Ten milligrams Cordrazine! Charge the cortical stimulator, now!”  
“No pulse. No blood pressure. Minimal activity in the mid-brain and no measurable response in the cerebral cortex.”  
“Again,” the monitor squeals and you let out a shaky breath, racing against the clock.  
“A pulse, doctor! I have one!”  
“75 milligrams inaprovaline! Begin direct synaptic stimulation! We need her pressure back up.”  
There! It’s faint, but it’s a damn lifesign. Not today, Kathryn. Repairing the endless litany of damage is becoming quite a chore. Each injury you focus on seems to lead to another, hidden beneath countless bleeds and fractures.  
After a lengthy four hours of surgery, fighting mother nature, sweating, praying, hoping over this formidable woman turned frail; you make your way to the hardest moment in all the chaos. Him. You must face him. Again. He knows your face all too well. Maybe he has come to hate it? Disgusted by the constant terror you must inflict.  
“Captain,” your voice stirs him from his trance, “I have news.”  
His eyes, red-rimmed and impossibly tired, rise slowly to meet your gaze. Hands remain steepled in front of his mouth, he nods to you. Already prepared for the anguish; your words dangle his future by a thread over the abyss. This woman is the first and only case you feel as if you save two lives with just one patient.  
“I’m going to be honest,” you deflate, the exhaustion and torrent of emotions weigh heavily on you, “tonight was the furthest she’s been from us. The surgery was a success.”  
You falter and he waits for the remainder of your report. Clearing your throat and swallowing around the massive lump there, you press on.  
“There is a distinct possibility that she may never regain consciousness. The swelling and lack of blood flow to her brain…,” his jaw tenses and he stands, “All we can do is wait, sir.”  
“May I see her now?”  
Your nurse exits and gives you the ‘all clear’. The Captain observes the gesture, not waiting for your permission to enter. Blessings upon him, for you know that he will forgo sleep, food, drink, and anything else until her eyes open to him once more.   
The next few shifts are excruciating. You chart, fill out the endless parade of back logs and reports, work on other patients, discharge and admit; going through the motions until you enter that room. You open her chart and every fiber of your being comes alive. Taking in every minute detail, fishing for evidence that she’s coming back. Returning to her captain.  
He becomes your second patient; his needs are also now your own. On the fifth day, you bring him a small salad and she breathes without assistance. The sixth, an avocado and Bajoran tomato sandwich, her eyes flutter open and closed. And on the eighth day, during a bite of your mother’s pasta, she opens her eyes; the Captain leaps from his seat, container clattering to the floor, as you are performing the perfunctory task of reading her chart. You know all that is written in it, you’ve read through it nearly twenty times in the last hour.  
“Doctor! She’s awake!”  
His strangled whisper and the snap of the plastic striking the floor sets you into motion; checking her vitals, assessing her reflexes, not to mention smiling like an idiot. Emotion squeezes at your chest as his hand brushes the hair from her eyes. Her responses are sluggish and there’s no telling what parts of her have been lost, yet you celebrate anyway.  
He kisses her forehead and whispers something into her ear, peppering her with kisses everywhere. You hate to interrupt the reunion, but protocol forces your hand.  
“Excuse me, sir. This will only take a moment,” he steps aside, tears streaming down his face.  
“Admiral,” you pick up her limp hand, “Can you move your fingers for me?” She looks to you with some confusion on her face. Her eyes track to where you hold her; no movement.  
“Very good. Can you speak for me, ma’am,” you’re shaking uncontrollably. Her mouth opens and a low moan scrapes her dry throat. The captain pours water into a glass and gathers a straw from the table beside him. She drinks greedily. Wonderful.  
“Oh, that’s great, Admiral. Ready to try again?”  
Her lips fumble around a syllable, she gives up on it and continues.  
“Ohhhhhhh-aayyy,” her eyes are questioning. You try and decipher her request.  
“One more time on that one, ma’am.”  
“Ohhhhh-daayyy,” she groans, a tear slips from her eye.  
“Are you in pain,” you reach into your gown for a hypospray. The Captain cups her cheek and brings her attention to him. Relief floods her features. He kneels carefully to be close to her face.  
“I’m here. I’m right here. Gods, I love you. So much Kathryn,” his voice breaks, face wet with the torrent of tears that he hasn’t shed since he arrived here. One of his hands grasps hers and the other continues to stroke her face and comb through her hair.  
She hums and you feel her fingers flutter weakly against your palm. Yes. YES!  
“She’s doing beautifully, Captain,” you feel your own hot tears blur your vision and spill over. You gingerly deposit her arm beside her and grab the chart, moving to leave. You nearly run into the Captain’s chest, his broad body blocking your exit.  
He scoops you up in a bone crushing embrace and the emotions you’ve held in come tumbling to the fore. He clutches you to him as sobs wrack your weary body. He drops a kiss to the crown of your head and whispers against your hair.  
“Thank you. Thank you so much for always returning her to me. May the Spirits guide and keep you.”  
You hug him once more before swiping your hands over your face and straightening your uniform. On your way out, standing in the open doorway, you turn to him once more.  
“Always.”


End file.
